I understand your heart is too good
to see the thorns hidden within his fingerprints;
That every time he touches you it is a gamble
of the rose and the thorn.
I know that when he reaches to caress,
you pray it’ll be the satin pedals that graze your skin.

Yet he leaves you with thorn cuts
and lets the blood drip
as if they won’t stain.
As if you chose to love this deep
and hurt this bad.

How does he walk through your garden
picking flowers by their root
until he has found what he is looking for
and when asked to plant a seed
for those he has let wilt
he is gone.

I realize your heart pulses so gently
that the sound of his drowns out your own.
But if you listen hard enough
don’t you hear the cries of the wilted
that yearn for water and sun?

How does he stomp on your garden
and pick as he pleases?
how is his first thought not to nurture
the very life that blooms so remarkably
for him?

Isn’t it time
To let yellow grow between the weeds
Between them and through them
Over and under until all is color
And the grey and the brown and
The wilted are gone

Because you are the blooming hydrangea,
the flourished tulip;
breathtaking with color
And unforgettable at touch.